Prologue

Title: Scourge
Rating: R
Summary: Seven months after Partial Eclipse: As Sylar begins to get settled into his new life, a force of evil far more terrible then he could ever imagine begins to weave itself into his life. And while Peter and Claire may rise again, so does the dawning armageddon.
Pairings: Peter/Claire, Sylar/Niki and various other minor pairings.
Disclaimer: I don't own anything except for Orson and various random OCs.

The day has arrived and God am I nervous, lol ) Hope you guys enjoy it, even with it's slightly slow start. I promise I'll post the first four or five chapters quickly so that we can get into the story quick and painlessly )

Prologue

"The Rising Dawn"

There was a change of seasons occurring in Arlington Cemetery. Half-melted snow stayed blanketed by a humid fog as the brink of winter just began to wipe out the remnants of fall. A man in black waded through the thicket of air and slush, blending in with the early dawn. The only things visible in the shadows were two unforgettable blue eyes which rested under his wisps of obsidian hair.

The stranger's purpose was an enigma to all others in the graveyard. Of course, the night watchmen gave him the benefit of the doubt. Relatives of the dead were known to pace about the headstones in the owl's hours. Funny how longing works like that. It doesn't care who you are or even the time of day. It simply attacks without warning, almost like a parasite, releasing a maelstrom of heartache and reckless need upon its unfortunate host.

But what the guards passed as an act of pining was actually much less innocent. This man had no family or friends, no dead relatives, and more importantly, his heart was not even capable of grieving. His reason for being, for haunting this place during the 'graveyard shift,' was something that the human mind could never understand.

He was searching for something, though. Those lingering, almost electricazure eyes scanned over each and every little white cross, looking for two names side-by-side. It was the only way he could truly believe the rumors that had been flying around him for the past few months. And once the legend he sought after became proven to him as fact, the man in black could finally commence a particular set of plans that had been laid out so many years ago.

Arlington was not only a place for soldiers; it was a place for heroes. And where else would two beings that had saved the world be buried? Where else would he find proof that the road was clear for him and his comrades to seize?

The man paused before a pair of crosses near the end of the row. They looked no more intricate of less-weathered than the others. After all, every hero was "equal", which was one of the main reasons why every grave marker in Arlington was exactly identical.

But no, the man had a feeling about these two. He had to squint to see the names on this dark side of the cemetery, the part that the sunrise hadn't quite reached yet. If he was capable of emotions, he almost would have felt pity for the two souls basked in night on the wrong side of the hill. No matter how hard the makers of Arlington tried, there still was no possible way to keep things all fair among heroes.

Because some heroes truly were greater than others.

When his blue eyes finally adjusted to the light, what he saw, what he read rather, made him smile a tad to himself. A cruel and twisted little smirk that made the flowers around him wilt.

Because it was true. The myth, the rumor…it was all factual stone, right as the first step of the apocalypse was about to begin.

Chapter One

"The Quiet Men"

Sylar gazed down at his wrists. They were free of barcodes and ink, but one still bore a rash from the tattered watch band he used to wear. He'd always had that broken watch on the wrong wrist since the day he woke up in the New York sewers. Though, Sylar was left-handed, so 'wrong' for him was normal for most.

"How's your job been?"

Sylar rubbed his forearm, eyes downcast. He shrugged. "It's alright. Monotonous but…fun sometimes."

"And your relationship with your girlfriend?"

"Still going okay."

"Things in general are…well?"

A terse nod and a shift of two shoulders. "Sure."

"'Sure' is a copout of 'yes,' Gabriel. Is there something you're not telling me?"

Sylar rubbed the rugged burn on his wrist again. It was itching more than usual. "I…I don't think so."

He wasn't much of a timid man in the wake of people he could trump. But something about this skeeving shrink with the tortoise shell glasses and Goodwill tweed intimidated him. Or rather, the questions scared him more than the mouth which spoke them.

"Dear man, it's been two months since you first came to see me," Doctor Knox sighed and set down his mysterious clipboard. "And so far, the only squeak of information you've let out is that you've lost your twin brother. At first I wanted to let you set your own pace of healing, but I'm growing anxious. Gabriel, you must open up with me at some point. Tell me something, anything, no matter how small. I can work with that, but I can't work with nothing."

What a lovely 'therapist' you make, Sylar thought sardonically, as he turned his head and gazed upon the San Francisco bay. Knox had a wonderful view from his skyscraper office. It was one of the few reasons that Sylar kept coming to these ridiculous sessions.

Oh, he'd almost bailed several times. But every time Sylar tried to tear himself away from the human pest named Doctor Knox, he came to regret it. Feelings of depression sunk into him as he was an emotional sponge. The lone twin sometimes thought with a bitter chuckle, if he was feeling daring, that this is what it must have been like for Peter.

"I just need a little more time, please," he replied with perfectly faked civility. "I promise I'll come around in the next month or so. But you have to understand- this time of year if hard for me."

Knox's eyebrows quirked up, his dull eyes beginning to spark on the edge of discovery. "Hard?"

Sylar moistened his lips, before revealing in a mouse-like whisper, "Our birthday is in three weeks."

xxx

Sylar ditched the cable cars and green bikes, opting for a pair of sneakers to get him home. He didn't exercise much, and went out in the sun even less, so a nice walk would probably do him some good. Niki was starting to joke that he looked like a vampire- gaunt, pale, stoic. Even insomniatic sometimes.

The first few months in Frisco had been fine. Sylar went through the grievance process almost like it was a routine or a schedule. He was emotionless about it, just following the steps to a tee and letting his mind release the past.

Yet he forgot about his heart along the way.

Not long after his mantelpiece became decorated with mementos of his fallen friends, Sylar's soul began to dissolve like tissue paper in the rain. Food tasted like cardboard, so much so that he'd give up eating altogether if he could handle the stomach pains. And even with Niki held in his arms as he lay in bed, sleep fought a never-ending war with him, liking to play hooky when he needed it the most.

Luckily, one of the few things that hadn't suffered was his job. Sylar worked in the back genealogy room of a library: a quiet oasis with no people to interact with. Only lots and lots of records and censuses to stamp and label, label and stamp. It was this meticulous detailed work that Sylar truly loved. Work that took his mind off Peter and Claire, and work that could deal with yawns, bloodshot eyes, and the wisps of grey hair forming around his temples.

A gust of wind slapped him in the face and blew back his scarf. It didn't get too terribly cold here in California, but a December chill was still brewing on the horizon. Sylar could hear a cold front frothing hundreds of miles away, and he made a mental note to wear a thicker jacket tomorrow.

The walk home required one tiresome stretch up a particularly steep hill. Sylar internally groaned, but trooped on anyway, distracting himself with all the festive decorations that were popping up. His mouth tilted into a slash. He'd always celebrated the holidays in the past, whether it was Christmas with Peter (the Catholic of the family), Hanukah with Molly Walker, or Dwhari with Mohinder. This year, however, Sylar wondered why he planned on celebrating anything at all. He didn't have much faith anymore, let alone any set religion. With a bold face he'd consider himself an atheist, but the occasional wonderment of life etc. made him declare mere agnosticism deep down.

Still, even though Sylar didn't have much of a companionship with the God, or a God, he still slipped into the nearest electronics store and bought a Christmas present for Micah Sanders.

xxx

Apartment 909 on Albemarle smelled like grease and shake-and-bake when he got home. His smile was weakly warm but well-meaning as he hung up his messenger bag on the coat rack. Niki was a great cook, as long as the recipe required her to fry something. Sylar loved it all to death, but could still foresee his arteries bitch-slapping him for it in about twenty years.

"Baby? You home?" hollered a warm voice from inside the kitchen. Sylar immediately smiled with a tinge of remorse. Each time he heard Niki's voice, he couldn't help but miss Claire's. Which made him all the more thankful for every second he had with his slender girlfriend.

"In here," he replied, trying not to show his weariness. Sylar slipped into the kitchen without a sound, content to wrap his arms around Niki from behind. He buried his face in her hair, which smelled of paprika and bell peppers. It wasn't really an unpleasant scent; just an unusual one to whiff of a forty-year old beautiful blonde.

Niki's throat clenched in a low, demure moan. She rubbed one of Sylar's wrists, which crossed over her chest, and with some flexibility, managed to kiss him on the cheek.

"Not this isn't comfortable, but I'm gonna burn the chicken if you don't let go."

The younger man smiled against a sensitive spot below her ear. "You really don't have to cook dinner. I could have picked something up on the way home."

Niki frowned and shimmied out of his arms. She set down her spatula and looked at him piercingly mischievous eyes. "Is that some sort of roundabout man way of saying that my cooking sucks?"

He could tell she was prodding him in mere gentle jest, so he wasn't alarmed. Sylar simply shrugged and tucked a lock of hair behind Niki's ear, giving him a clearer view of her face. God how he wished she'd pin it back more often. It wasn't in her eyes or anything, but he would much prefer for nothing to be obscured. Alas, though. Relationships were about giving and taking, and something had to give.

"No. But you've got work in an hour," he spoke honestly. "I don't expect you to be June Cleaver. Why don't you just rest?"

"Aww," Niki grinned. "Is this your inner Feminist coming out?"

Wit was one of Sylar's stronger points, and he usually had comebacks instantly. Yet that one actually took a few seconds to reply to. He frankly had no idea what to declare.

"I'm just saying that maybe some days I'd like to treat you to something," he answered slowly and wisely, earning a knowing peer from Niki.

"I know," she smirked. "But I don't mind being the housewife every once in a while. Its normal, Sylar, and it gives me something to do during the day. Besides, this way, I can spend some time with you before going off to work."

He chose not to reply this time. Niki mentioned that they could bond over dinner, and that definitely wasn't something Sylar was about to argue with.

She gave him an innocuous kiss to the cheek and crossed to the other side of the kitchen. Sylar watched on, entranced, at the way her arm muscles popped when she reached up to pull a set of plates down from the shelf. He often forgot that Niki was capable of ripping men apart with her bare hands, but this served as a half-alluring, half-eerie reminder.

The following fifteen minutes slipped through Sylar's fingers and, unsure of how he'd even gotten there, he was now sitting across from his beloved Niki at dinner. The widow's mouth ran on about Micah, yet all Sylar could hear were familiar syllables and waves of air that were actually starting to numb his mind. Every day was turning into the same Groundhog Day, very habitual, and it was easy to let things all blur together. Even when Sylar tried to log every grain of his life into his memory, to not take any moment with anyone for granted, the outcome was still rather inevitable.

"How was your day, sweetie?"

"Um…" Sylar may have adored Niki, but he loathed that question. It was right up there with "How are you feeling?" and "Are you okay?" Not that he held it against his dear lover. She only meant well, but that still didn't make it any easier for Sylar to counter the unanswerable.

"Okay," he shortly responded, reeling in the wild horse of irritation stampeding and buzzing in the back of his brain. "Knox was fun."

Niki beamed sympathetically, picking up on the sarcasm. "There are other therapists in San Francisco, Sylar."

Sylar dragged his spoon through his rice pilaf, parting it like the Red Sea. He sniffed a bit and sighed, before putting down the utensil and rubbing his face with a large hand. "No use switching now. He's just starting to get somewhere with me."

His girlfriend's eyes danced with a newfound spark of interest. "Really? That's great!"

"I suppose. There's really no way to avoid it though. Everywhere I go, everywhere I look…everything reminds me of them."

Niki reached across the table and covered his hand. "It's gonna be a rough month for you, but then it'll all be over and we can start a new year with a clean slate. It'll be a lot better. I promise."

The lanky man gave her a half-hearted smile. "I know." He turned his hand so that her slender fingers rested in his open palm. "And I've always got you and Micah."

"When he's not playing video games," the single mother smirked, glancing over at their front door. More specifically, she was peering in the direction of her old apartment. Micah celebrated his eighteenth birthday shortly after Niki moved in with Sylar. Therefore, the teenager had a whole apartment to himself, while his mother and Sylar shacked up across the hall. It was a pretty sweet deal in Micah's eyes, when he didn't let his curious brain think about what Sylar and Niki were doing in the other abode.

Yet despite the "Stacey's Mom" aspect of the whole situation, Micah really was overreacting. Niki and Sylar were anything but serious. They slept in the same bed, yet they'd never slept together. They hadn't even exchanged "I love you"s, though the three words were often on the tip of Sylar's tongue, waiting to be confessed.

Simply, such an absolutely normal relationship was offbeat for a man like Sylar. A man who'd seen nothing before his eyes but either one night stands or soul mates. Never in his memory could he recall a steady partnership, one with baby steps and casual dates, and hand-holding before the love-making. In the society around him, most people jumped into bed at the first chance.

Niki glanced at their antique clock above the fireplace, and Sylar's eyes followed hers. Except while she was checking out the time, his gaze fell to Peter and Claire's urns, their pictures, and everything else that decorated his mantelpiece. And when he saw Peter's silver ring- Angela Petrelli's old engagement ring which she gave him on his sixteenth birthday- Sylar felt even more stuffiness in his ribcage.

He barely noticed Niki getting up across from him, a fourth of her dinner still on the plate. She crossed the room and grabbed her coat, before planting a quick kiss on Sylar.

"I'm sorry I couldn't finish dinner," she apologized, cringing as she headed towards the door. "But Chile's waits for no one."

"I understand," he replied gently, still feeling down from seeing Peter and Claire. "What time will you be getting in?"

"Oh, really late," Niki said, biting her bottom lip. "I'm closing up tonight."

"Again? That's three times this week."

"I know, I know. I'll talk to them about it, I swear. See you tomorrow?"

Sylar nodded, and finally got a giant burst of courage and timing and everything-

"I lo-," he began as she began to disappear through the doorway. However, the blonde failed to hear his half-stated sentiment, which was barely above a whisper. She simply closed the door behind her and left Sylar utterly alone for the night. Alone with a table full of dirty dishes and lips that could still feel her touch.

xxx

One of the most noticeable things about Dr. Knox's waiting room was the way it smelled. Sylar hadn't had much experience with doctor's offices, or poking and prodding, or sterile scents, but there was something about Knox's digs that…gave him a sense of abnormality.

Then again, maybe it was just because his pattern was broken. Sylar was always penciled in for the first session of the day, and every time, the doctor was precisely prompt. Yet the week after Niki and Sylar's 'bonding dinner,' on another boringly ordinary Wednesday, Knox was actually absent for the first time.

Sylar put aside his magazine and stepped up to the receptionist's desk, his eyes glancing disdainfully at wall clock. It read a quarter past ten, a good fifteen minutes after Sylar's appointment was scheduled to begin.

"Excuse me," he said to the secretary in a low voice, feeling suddenly embarrassed as everyone waiting in the hollow room immediately looked up at him.

Sylar swallowed and stood more rigidly. "Has my appointment been changed or something, because-,"

"Oh no, dear." the buxom woman smiled, showing overly bleached teeth. "He's just running late. No need to fret."

Sylar's frown deepened. "Well, why did he decide to leave so late if he knew-."

The woman's gaze turned from helpful to sharp in the blink of an eye, shutting Sylar right up. He sighed and left the desk with his dignity stomped on by a five foot tall woman in scrubs who distantly reminded him of Reba, his old landlord from Boston.

"No matter, comrade," drawled a voice from beside Sylar as he sat down. "The old-timer would be late for his own funeral. You've just been lucky thus far."

Gabriel looked to his left and saw a pale, raven-haired man two seats down, curled up and boredly reading the daily paper. The man tilted his head and stared back, a ghost of a smirk curving up on his dark lips.

"Perhaps. I've only been here three times," Sylar replied emotionlessly. He half-hoped that this would cause the other man to go back to his readings and to leave him the hell alone.

But a part of Sylar wanted to know a bit more. After all, this stranger was dressed awfully nice to be going to a shrink- fancy black slacks, a crisp dress shirt (though untucked), and a tailored black jacket. Plus, there was an aura about him that reeked of mystery and maturity and a wit that Sylar truly appreciated.

So it wasn't an entire shame when the intriguing man answered back, "Ah. I've been coming here a while. Just got my times changed, that's all. Afternoons weren't good for me anymore."

"I have to come in the mornings. I've got work later on today."

The stranger's eyebrows rose in mild interest, the interest of small-talk that somehow didn't feel small. He set aside his paper, crossed his legs, and turned to Sylar. "Oh yeah? And where would that be?"

"The library," Sylar replied with a nod, wishing he could be a bit more fascinating. But all he could come up with was, "I label things in the genealogy hall."

His acquaintance grinned with one of the most playful and attractive smiles Sylar had ever seen on a man. "Not bad. Next time I check out my grandmother's death certificate, I'll think of you."

Sylar let out a small, amicable laugh. "If my manners start to show, that is. I'm sorry; I've held back my name." He extended one of his large hands in offering. "I'm Sylar."

The younger man grasped Sylar's hand with slender, almost brittle fingers, and the amnesiac was nearly afraid he'd break his new friend's digits. Yet the lithe stranger showed no sign of discomfort. In fact, he seemed even more wired with unseen energy and humor.

"What a lovely day to meet you, Sylar." His blue eyes danced impishly as he finally purred, "I'm Orson."

xxx

To Be Continued…